


I want to tell you but I don’t know how

by impossibletruths



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Percy's coat makes a good blanket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:52:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7660039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Such an easy phrase, he knows, small and simple and short, but it sticks in his throat. Besides––actions, they say, speak louder than words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I want to tell you but I don’t know how

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Neptune" by Sleeping At Last

It gets cold at night.

Whitestone, as it is with most old castles, turns drafty in the winter months, and tonight is no exception. Snow piles up along the windows and the chill seems to seep through the stone, and even the fires in their hearths do little to ward off the inclement weather.  Percy remembers these sorts of evenings, when the snow would fall and the winds would howl and the family would gather in the parlor. He remembers Mother reading to them on nights like this, even when they were too old for fairytales and ghost stories; they number among his most cherished memories.

Tonight, when he steps into that old parlor––why he cannot say; an old fondness perhaps, or maybe a masochistic need to see what exactly the Briarwoods have destroyed from his childhood––the flames flicker low in the hearth, barely more than embers. His newfound family has scattered to the four winds, as much as they can while trapped in the same building. This old room is cold and empty, barren of everything save his ghosts.

Except, it isn’t. As he makes to leave, loathe to face the past on a cold, lonely night such as this, a shadow shifts along the wall, and a quiet murmur drifts through the dark, and Percy, still on edge even though the Briarwoods are gone (they are dead, they cannot hurt him, why is he still afraid) snaps to alertness, one hand falling to the holster of the gun that is not his own, and isn’t that a sickly reminder of all that has gone wrong. He peers into the room, searching for the source of the sound, searching for whatever the monsters may have left to further tarnish his already-faded memories.

But the parlor looks untouched by the Briarwoods; it seems they took more pleasure in desecrating the private spaces of the de Rolo home than the public ones. He takes a few tentative steps into the room, thick carpet muffling his footsteps, but he does not see anything until he is well inside. When he does find what startled him so, he relaxes, hand falling off the pistol on his belt.

Vex huddles curled in his father’s old armchair, feet tucked beneath her, hair tumbling into her face, book open in her lap, dead asleep.

Percy smiles at the sight. They have all of them been working round the clock to do what they can for the peoples of Whitestone––rebuilding houses and homes, returning what they can to the townsfolk, keeping the ziggarut sealed away, sending out messages to old allies who might be able to help. All of them could use some rest, she especially.

She shivers slightly, in the draft of the open room, and Percy casts his eyes about for a throw, a blanket, anything, but the room does not seem to have been visited in some time, and the chairs and couches lack even pillows, much less any decorative linens.

So he shrugs his coat off his shoulders instead. He feels the draft, the cold chill seeping through his vest and shirtsleeves, but she shivers again, book falling from her limp grasp and landing with a quiet thump on the carpet, and without a second thought he tucks his coat around her.

She disappears under it, small in comparison. Percy knows he has a good half a foot on her, but she carries herself with such vivacity and confidence that he forgets, sometimes, just how slight she is.

He leans down to pick up her book––a history of the area; she has been digging into the origin of the temple beneath the town with little success––and carefully marks her spot before closing it and setting it on the table next to her. She shifts and murmurs and Percy freezes, worried for a moment she might wake, but she only shifts slightly and sighs.

On a whim, he brushes a lock of hair out of her face. She looks so peaceful, like this, free of the worries the world heaps on her shoulders, worries they have laid upon her. He especially, he knows––

She has done so much for him these past weeks. Has kept him whole and solid and grounded, more than she will ever know. Silently, he swears to himself that when her time comes, when she needs him, he will not hesitate to return this kindness. She has lent him her strength; he will give her his whenever she need it, time and time and time again. Anything for the dark-haired woman curled in his father’s armchair. It is the very least he can do.

It should frighten him, he thinks, how ready he is to place himself on the line for her. But his cowardice fails him here, when it comes to her well-being, her happiness. Instead, it sends a shiver down his spine, bright and hot like lightning, like the spark of metal on metal. It is the thrill of building new things with hands and heat and heart.

“Sleep well, Vex’ahlia,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a brief, quiet kiss to the top of her head, a gesture he would never dare were she awake. Her hair is soft against his lips. “No harm will come to you here, so long as I am the Lord of Whitestone. I swear it.”

There are other words, bigger words, simpler words, but those stick in his throat, too big for him, too easy to let loose at the wrong moment, so he swallows them down.

He lingers only a moment after that, cold without his coat and overwhelmed by the ache that blooms in his chest as he watches her. He makes his way briskly back to his room, shivering slightly, his shoes tapping steadily on the stone floor of the castle’s ancient halls.

What he does not see, because he does not stay, are Vex’s eyes quietly cracking open, and the soft smile on her face. He does not see her tug his coat tighter around her, burrowing into the warmth, breathing in the smell of him, of gunpowder and worn wool. He does not see her quiet comfort, does not know she heard his solemn promise.

But she did. She knows. She understands, words spoken and not. And she drifts off again, safe in Whitestone Castle and home in a way she does not yet know, she feels the echo of his lips against her hair.

When she dreams, it is of ancient, soaring halls, and warm arms, and a cunning young lord, and it feels like home.


End file.
